


here’s the ground and there’s your feet (and never the two shall meet)

by pseudokuwu



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Oral Sex, Suicide, takes place in Paris during The Showstopper mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28362036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudokuwu/pseuds/pseudokuwu
Summary: “This is the way you want to go, then?” 47 asks again, meeting her dark gaze. Her smile is alluring, in the way that the right drug makes the world go unfocused at the edges.“There’s nothing wrong with a little death on my way out,” Margolis says.
Relationships: Agent 47/Dalia Margolis
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	here’s the ground and there’s your feet (and never the two shall meet)

His footsteps are softer than a whisper, even in the new custom leather shoes with the hard soles against the varnished wooden flooring. The door hardly makes a sound when he opens it. The private room is empty of souls when he enters, save for one, who’s standing at the balcony overlooking the fashion show, wine glass in hand, her back towards him.

He raises his silenced pistol. Aims—

“So you’re going to kill me, then?” she says, not once turning to face him.

47 blinks. “You knew I was coming.”

Dalia Margolis turns, eyes sharp are knives and deep as pools as she finally meets his gaze. Not once does she glance at the gun pointed right at her head. Only moves the wine glass to her mouth and sips, the pounding of the fashion show’s music coming through the open balcony windows.

“Obviously,” she murmurs, when she’s swallowed, lipstick leaving a stain against the wine glass like blood against a mirror, “I run an international covert intelligence operation, Mr Rieper. I’d be dead much sooner if I weren’t good with faces. I know who my guards are.”

47 lowers his gun. Something often ill-advised, but he’s always had a weakness for hearing out his targets before they die. There’s something he enjoys about being able to carry someone’s last words, collecting them like a child would marbles. Besides, he knows for a fact that they’re alone on this floor, that no one can hear them through the blaring music on any of the floors below, and there are no bugs or traps in the room. He’s searched it thoroughly, earlier on. There’s an unconscious body in Margolis’ bathroom closet to show for it.

Besides, Diana is quiet in his ear. If not his instinct, Diana’s usually ready to voice out if something doesn’t feel right.

“So why didn’t you kill me?” 47 asks, holstering the gun. “Or have me arrested. You were Mossad, before.”

Dalia smiles, and it’s as beautiful as it is pained. “I’ll admit, it took me awhile to notice something was off. By the time I did, I was too late. You were in my shadow. You would’ve killed me regardless, albeit through ways that’d be significantly less charming.”

He thinks about the emetic rat poison in his jacket pocket, and chooses not to confirm her suspicions. “So this is how you want to go?”

“From the limited options you’ve given me? Yes.” Margolis snorts, and places the wine glass aside. Steps closer. 47 keeps his eyes on hers, even as he mentally keeps track of everything she’s wearing, what’s on her arms, any shapes in her pockets that could give away a gun or a dagger. There’s nothing around him that she could use to hurt him — at least, not things that he couldn’t get to faster than she could. It’s a non-zero chance that she could hurt him regardless, but he’s never been about being conventional.

Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t react as much as he should when she steps into his space, and places a hand on his chest.

“Such a shame,” Margolis says, with what almost sounds like genuine regret in her voice. “You’d be such an invaluable addition to IAGO, with looks like this and a brain like that.”

He feels her fingers skim down his chest, tugging slightly on his tie. He doesn’t move. “Thank you for the compliment, but I’m already employed.”

Diana’s laugh is quiet but clear in his ear over that, and he internally smiles as Margolis shakes her head, a resigned smirk on her own mouth as she pats his chest once more and then walks away. Something in that gaze magnetizes him, and as she walks to the dresser, he finds himself walking after her. 

47 has always had a simultaneously complicated and simple relationship with attraction and sexuality. He knows he’s conventionally attractive, yes. He’s also found other people attractive sometimes, yes. He doesn’t quite feel attraction, romantically or sexually, in the same way that the world at large seems to, but he understands the basics of it, objectively. He knows it feels good from experience, at least for the more carnal of attractions.

He’s found it easier to compare it to hunger. He understands the mechanisms and functions of eating, he just doesn’t really have an appetite. But even he likes to eat, once in a while. He feels no hunger, but sometimes just the act of eating is pleasant on it’s own.

So when Dalia Margolis smiles at him, and uncrosses her legs, he doesn’t hesitate to stand between them.

One would have to be blind to not know that Margolis is beautiful, if only objectively speaking. Beneath the icey dress her skin is liquor-warm and golden, her posture elegant, her expression a perfect mask of grace and elevation even with death between her knees. When 47 runs his hands up her calves, her thighs, he feels the ungiving tone of muscles, of scars. And as he trails his fingers higher, he takes note of the fact she isn’t wearing anything under her dress.

“This is the way you want to go, then?” 47 asks again, meeting her dark gaze. Her smile is alluring, in the way that the right drug makes the world go unfocused at the edges.

“There’s nothing wrong with a little death on my way out,” Margolis says, leaning back as the flicker of resignation comes over her eyes. “And I know I’m not getting out of this. You’ve taken those options from me. I’ll take my choices where I can. If you’d prefer otherwise, you can shoot me now.”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t, and he knows that she knows that he won’t, and so he doesn’t say a word as he pushes the hem of her dress higher, to her hips, the golden lamplight shining against the groomed thatch of curls between her legs, skin catching the light where some of her has dripped down the inner flesh of her thighs. When he runs his thumb against it, Margolis shivers. Her folds are fever-hot, wet and slick, and her pupils are blown and dark like an oil spill. She doesn’t say a word.

47 drops to his knees, holding her thighs apart that could crush him if she so wanted, and laps her from hole to clit.

Her moan is quiet, nigh unhearable against the thrumming bass of the music coming from the runway, but he hears it all the same, and it drives him forward. He doesn’t care to make it elegant. There’s nothing elegant about sex. But there’s something viciously beautiful all the same, about the way her brows furrow and her mouth opens, painted dark and lips glimmering in the lamplight, the little  _ ah-ah-ah, there, put your back into it  _ as he licks and sucks at her folds, the flat of his tongue against her over and over and over.

She’s gone from wet to drenched. He’s soaked from nose to chin, and when he points his tongue to lick inside of her he gets his brows damp too. Off to the side, he can vaguely see where her hands are clutching at the edges of the dresser she’s perched on, nails digging marks into the wood varnish, and her thighs are shaking. His hands are firm against her knees as he laps at her without stopping, without pause, lips moving against her to lick at her clit and then suck on it, gently, with a hint of teeth that sends her back arching.

She cusses under her breath, a mix of English and a flurry of other languages including her own mother tongue, and she’s unabashed about grinding her hips against his face, unashamed about chasing the orgasm her quivering legs are telling him about her. 47 doesn’t falter. He only keeps taking her into his mouth, licking and lapping without restraint, feeling her drip down his chin and onto the carpet, the noise obscene among the background music. Just two floors down, the fashion show is but a couple of minutes from ending, and up here he’s got his tongue so deep inside her that he can taste the copper-salt of her, the bumps and ridges and hot flesh within.

When he takes her clit down to the base, sucks her from tip to root, nose buried in the damp thatch of curls and a pointed hum in his throat, she comes with a choked  _ ah! _ , clenching around nothing hard enough to send droplets of her slick down her legs, hips jerking and jostling the dresser. It’s no easy feat to keep her thighs from clenching around his head, years of being trained in Mossad and then decades of learning to walk and run and climb in heels turning her legs to iron when she wants them to be, but it’s worth it to feel her tremors, the throb of her walls against him, his face slippery with her and her taste on his tongue.

It’s good. So good that he almost doesn’t notice the minute shift in the muscles of her right arm. But he’s too attuned to his surroundings, every detail of her being etched into his memory in real-time, and as her arm comes darting from her side she gets as far as a few inches away from his jugular before his hand grabs her wrist and stops it cold with his iron grip.

Her laughter is breathless, still quaking with the intensity of her orgasm that isn’t even over yet, even as the syringe in her fingers dangle uselessly too far from his throat. 47 takes care not to let go of her legs.

_ “That’s one way to distract someone,” _ Diana remarks in his ear, sounding impressed. 47’s inclined to agree.

Margolis’ arm slackens as she finally comes down from her high. She shakes her head, amusement on her mouth as she slowly nudges him away from her with a foot. “Was worth a shot,” she bemuses as he moves to stand, letting go of her wrist and immediately shifting into a distance where she can’t try again without telegraphing her moves.

“I’ll be sure to take notes,” 47 replies, and Margolis only laughs a little louder.

And then she sighs, smiling, and shifts to smooth down the hem of her dress again. Leans back against the wall, head tipping back, and before he can think twice she’s already jammed the syringe into her own neck, plunging the liquid inside her in a way that makes her face grimace slightly, before relaxing again, dropping the now-empty syringe to the floor. A little blood beads from where the needle had been, and it clots before it can slip down her throat.

Her eyes are still deep and dark and near indecipherable when she glances down at him. Her smile is resigned and knowing. In this moment she is incomparable, and then her body seizes, her knees buckle, and she hits the floor and is gone before her limbs have stopped twitching.

47 watches the light leave her eyes, and bends low to feel her pulse with her fingers, noting the lack thereof. And then he takes the moment to snap her neck, just to be sure, before standing and wiping his face with his tie.

“ _ Good work, 47, _ ” Diana says in his ear, “ _ Dalia is down. May I recommend washing your face before you complete the contract? _ ”

47 takes her up on the advice, and heads to the bathroom.

(He leaves her body where it is, doesn’t bother to hide it. It was where she’d wanted to die, and he’d at least honour that, if his contract wouldn’t allow anything else. Down below, he hears Viktor taking the stage alongside Sebastian Sato, and he takes a moment to glance one more time at the body that once held Dalia Margolis before turning to leave the room. 

Behind his eyelids, he sees her still. Encased in the warm gold of the lamplight, her taste on his tongue. Forever with those dark eyes like ink, like obsidian, like an oil slick, a goddess encased in amber and honey.

_ There’s nothing wrong with a little death on the way out, _ he remembers her saying. And then the voice goes silent as he files the memory away, and returns to fulfill the rest of his contract.)


End file.
